The Midas Murders (3 page)

“Do me a favor, sweetheart.” Van In's voice had dropped an octave. Even Versavel was taken aback. “I'm investigating an attempted murder. The victim's name is Fiedle and I know Arents was the first to attend to him.”

His “sweetheart” didn't appear to be the least bit impressed. She straightened her back and started to tap the keyboard like an irate harpy.

“Tell me, sweetheart, I'm curious. Are you on a monthly contract?” Her fingers stopped, hovered above the keys, and she glared at the police officers in a rage. “Thing is … if you don't get Arents's ass here in five, you'll be picking up your groceries next month at the Salvation Army store.”

Versavel stroked his moustache to camouflage an emerging smile. Van In could be seriously blunt if it wasn't his day.

The girl looked at them like a deer that had just lost its fawn.

“If you put it like that,” she said, her voice wavering.

Her slender fingers reached for the telephone. Van In wallowed in the Bruce Willis effect and lit a defiant cigarette.

“Doctor Arents just got back,” she admitted reluctantly. “If the gentlemen don't mind waiting, he'll be ready in a moment. I'll take you to him.”

Arents was wearing an expensive Italian suit under his white coat. Versavel couldn't take his eyes off him.

“Doctor Arents. Assistant Commissioner Van In. This is my colleague Guido Versavel.”

They shook hands.

“A pleasure,” said Arents coolly. He had a nine-hour shift in front of him, and a police interrogation wasn't exactly the kind of intermezzo he'd been looking forward to. Versavel stepped back and enjoyed Doctor Adonis.

“It's about Dietrich Fiedle, the German tourist—”

“He's in the OR as we speak,” Arents wearily interrupted. “The man's in very bad shape. He won't be receiving visitors for a while.”

“Of course, Doctor.” Van In was deliberately submissive. “Questioning the victim was the last thing on my mind. I presume he's in a coma.”

Versavel lifted his hand to his mouth and pretended to root around in his moustache. The commissioner was laying it on a little too thick for his liking.

“I'm afraid I can't comment, Commissioner,” Arents snapped.

“
Professional confidentiality,
” Versavel sniggered.

“You said a moment ago that he was in bad shape,” Van In gently insisted.

“His condition is critical,” Arents admitted. He had lost interest in the cat-and-mouse game. “What do you want me to do, for Christ's sake? Half an hour ago, I gave someone from the police permission to take a photo. Even if the surgery is a success, Mr. Fiedle will be ‘incommunicado' for at least a couple of weeks.”

Van In straightened his back and dumped his cigarette in a plant pot. Arents hadn't said a word about it. He presumed the good doctor wasn't quite the macho man he pretended to be.

“I'm only interested in his personal possessions,” said Van In nonchalantly. “We all have our job to do, Doctor, I understand that. You take care of sick people; I'm trying to close a case.”

Arents nodded. He suddenly didn't appear as flashy as before.

“How can I be of assistance, Commissioner?”

The question proved once and for all that most doctors rarely listen. Van In had already told him what he wanted.

“I would appreciate the chance to take a look through Fiedle's personal effects,” Van In repeated.

This time he deliberately left out the word “doctor.”

“That shouldn't be a problem,” said Arents in a starchy tone. “Myriam, will you show the gentlemen what they're looking for?” The receptionist nodded pointedly.

“I'll be in Emergency if you need me.”

Versavel noticed an exchange of looks between Arents and Myriam. Arents was straight. Shame, he thought.

“P
ITY THEY DON'T SERVE
D
UVEL,”
Leo Vanmaele barked when he caught sight of Van In and Versavel heading toward the cafeteria bar.

“Hoi, Leo,” Van In chortled. “I'll have to settle for a cappuccino.”

Leo shifted his hefty Nikon invitingly out of the way.

“Didn't Versavel tell you I'd be waiting?”

“God's ways are mysterious, and so are Versavel's,” Van In mocked.

Sergeant Versavel winked at Vanmaele.

“What can I get you, gentlemen?”

The heavily made-up lady behind the bar looked Van In indifferently up and down.

“Three cappuccinos, please.”

He fished a couple of hundred-franc notes from his wallet.

“That'll be two hundred and ten,” she snorted contemptuously.

In addition to the two hundreds, Van In only had a two-thousand-franc note. It was the last of his cash, and he didn't fancy breaking it for change. So he rummaged nervously in his trouser pocket. He was the only customer, so the counterwoman was patient with him.

“Guido, do you have a spare ten francs?”

Versavel reacted quickly. The commissioner's financial problems were the stuff of legend. It wasn't the first time he'd had to pitch in. “Put your money away. It's on me. I owe you for yesterday.”

Van In didn't protest when Versavel handed him the tray with the cappuccinos and conjured a thousand-franc note from his inside pocket. The painted bird of paradise gave Versavel his change, and he left a couple of twenty-franc coins on the counter.

“It wasn't easy getting the photos,” said Leo, pointing to his camera. “Don't expect the best of quality. Those doctors really believe photos can damage a patient's health.” He raised the cappuccino to his nose and greedily inhaled the aroma of hot coffee through the layer of cool cream.

“I'm happy with reasonable,” said Van In, putting the photographer's mind at rest. “As long as I have them by seven.”

“No problem. Anything for you, Van In. Even a Sunday evening in the darkroom. I'll deliver them tomorrow in person, no less.”

“Sorry, but when I said seven, I meant seven
p.m.
I need the photos tonight, Leo.”

Versavel concentrated on his cappuccino. He knew what was coming: Leo gets worked up, Van In makes it worse. Thank God I'm a morning person, he thought to himself.

“Why not make it
six
p.m.
, Commissioner?” Leo leaned threateningly across the table, his feet dangling six inches above the floor. “Next time, Mr. Big Shot should order Polaroids!”

“You don't expect me to sketch the bloody German by hand, do you?” Van In snapped indignantly. “My artistic talents might not be the best, but it would save a lot of time, you can be sure of that.”

“With your dick as a pencil, right?” Leo sneered. “Save that for the assistant public prosecutor.”

Ouch. Van In was speechless. Even Leo was taken aback at himself. He stirred angrily at his cappuccino.

“Have you seen
this
photo?” Versavel asked in a well-intentioned effort to break the unpleasant silence. He produced a brown envelope from his inside pocket, opened it, and emptied its contents on the table: a key ring, a beige calf's-leather wallet, and a museum ticket. Versavel opened the wallet and removed a sepia-tinted photograph.

“This was among Fiedle's personal belongings,” said Van In by way of information. “I'm not quite sure if we should be showing evidence like this to a low-grade official.”

“Cut the bellyaching,” Leo groused.

“What do you think of the photo?” Versavel persisted.

Leo furrowed his brow. The sergeant had stirred his professional interest. “What am I supposed to see?” he said after a bit.

“Sergeant Versavel wants to know if anything in the photo catches your eye, a detail, something that doesn't quite square,
quelque chose de suspect
. Jesus H. We're in the middle of an investigation, Leo.”

“I see an old-fashioned photo of Michelangelo's
Madonna
.”

“Look closer, good friend,” Van In smirked. “Use a magnifying glass if need be, but have a good look.”

“It looks at least forty years old,” he said hesitatingly. “Excellent quality, but the light could be better.”

“The light could be better,” Van In roared. “Did you hear that, Guido? The light could be better.”

A man with a mobile drip got up and moved closer.

“Take another look, Leo, and this time forget the light.”

Leo stuck his finger in his ear and pulled an indignant face.

“The vegetation, Leo.”

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“The statue's outside, Leo … see the hills in the background?”

“So what?” He examined the photo again. “Remarkable. Do you want an analysis?”

Van In heaved a sigh of relief. “If that's not too much to ask,” he groaned.

“I'll need a couple of days, Pieter.”

“Monday's fine.”

Checkmate, thought Versavel.

Leo arrived back at the station at four-thirty that afternoon. He took the elevator to the third floor, beaming from ear to ear and whistling the opening bars of
The Barber of Seville
.

Van In was in his shirtsleeves, at his desk, chain-smoking. He had had copies made in the hospital of Fiedle's passport and the photo of the
Madonna
and had faxed them to the
Bundeskriminalamt
—Germany's Federal Criminal Police. Waiting for their response was getting on his nerves.

Versavel had turned the thermostat to the highest setting and opened one of the pivoting windows. Even the hardy ficus plant had trouble with the smoke in room 204, shedding a nicotine-stained leaf every hour.

“Am I on time, or am I on time?” Leo blared.

He posed in the doorway like a blushing Apollo, a bulging envelope under his arm. When no one answered his rhetorical question, he hopped inside.

“The door, Leo,” said Van In without looking up.

“Sorry, Commissioner. I didn't know you were allergic to fresh air.” Leo took a seat near the window and handed Versavel the envelope. “Herr Fiedle doesn't look too hot, but he's still quite recognizable in spite of the head bandage.”

Versavel examined the enlargements and compared them with the German's passport photo.

“You're sure we're talking about the same guy?”

Leo's face pleaded innocence. “The passport photo's more than thirty years old.”

“Give them here.” Van In stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette and demanded the envelope with an impatient gesture. Versavel pitched the whole shebang across the office like a Frisbee.

Fiedle looked like a living skeleton. His pointed nose dominated his hollow face, and his bushy eyebrows stood out against the whiter-than-white head bandage.

“You have to account for the circumstances,” said Van In philosophically. In the air he waved the fax that he had received from Arents half an hour earlier. “Fiedle had a blood-alcohol level of 2.8. No wonder he looks like death warmed over.”

“You look the same after six Duvels,” Leo mocked. “And your passport photo is only five years old.”

Versavel left them to bicker. He fired up his brand-new word processor and opened the file named “Fiedle.” The screen flickered ominously, and Versavel couldn't help thinking about his trusty old typewriter. Those had been the days.

Bruges nightlife was limited to a handful of notorious cafés and bars. Van In presumed that the German had visited one of them before the encounter on Blinde Ezel Street. The 2.8 blood-alcohol count seemed to point in that direction, unless he'd tied one on in his hotel room before heading out for a walk in the snow.

Two officers were still checking the hotel registers. They hadn't managed to locate Fiedle's hotel yet.

At seven-fifteen, Van In and Leo Vanmaele left Versavel to get better acquainted with his word processor and headed out.

“Page me if there's news on the hotel,” Van In shouted as he closed the door behind him. His spirits had lifted.

Armed with the photos, the two men went bar-hopping on the Egg Market. Most of the proprietors knew Van In and were happy to cooperate, or at least pretended to be. Waiters and regulars examined the photos, but no one recognized the German. Almost every café cost them a Duvel. At one-thirty they ordered their sixth in the Vuurmolen, an after-hours bar on Kraan Square. The place was packed, and hard rock music was slowly but surely ruining the expensive speakers.

Leo ordered a double toasted sandwich; Van In finished his Duvel and switched to coffee.

“Hard to keep up, eh?” Leo scoffed between bites.

Van In grudgingly sipped the hot but bitter concoction.

“Christ pulled the same face when they offered him a sponge soaked in vinegar,” Leo grinned.

“I remember it like yesterday,” said Van In, stony-faced. “You were on the left and you died of thirst.”

“Very spiritual, Pieter. You'll be lying next, before the cock crows a third time.”

Van In glanced at his watch. “Jesus H. Two-fifteen.”

“Tired?”

“Of course not,” Van In snapped. “Finish your sandwich. Whiskey-cola in the Villa. My treat.”

“Your treat!” Leo grinned. “The entire force knows that you get your meds in the Villa for free.”

“Shout it from the rooftops. My guess is you're not planning to cough up for that dog food you're guzzling either. The double portion is a giveaway.”

Leo took a final serious bite and shrugged his shoulders. “We'll see when the bill comes.”

Although Van In looked like a dredged-up vagrant, the bouncer at the Villa let him in with a friendly smile. An indignant young American couple—he in expensive Levis, she in $140 Nikes—watched them go inside. Jean-Luc, the bouncer, had shown them the door.

The Villa was alive and swinging. After midnight the place was usually packed to the doors. Hot chicks writhed on the dance floor, playing with the dazzling laser beams. From a distance, and in the constantly changing light, they looked irresistible. Their miniskirts left nothing to the imagination, and the promised land rippled under their tight tops. The majority were over thirty and divorced. Van In was familiar with the genre. An overblown title or a nonchalantly flaunted bundle of banknotes was enough to get them on their backs.

“Hello, Mario,” Van In yelled, and the bartender read his lips. Mario gave him a thumbs-up and automatically grabbed a pair of long drink glasses. He leaned over and shouted something into the ear of a balding forty-something customer. The mature yuppie took his girlfriend by the arm and hey, presto, a couple of empty barstools.

Van In thanked him with a wink, sat down, and slumped over the bar. He was tired. His ankles were swollen, and he had pins and needles in his calves.

Mario didn't spare the Glenfiddich. One bottle of cola was enough to fill the glasses to the brim.

“It's been a while, Commissioner,” he bellowed. “And your luck's in. Véronique's here. Want me to call her over?”

Van In sensed Leo's disapproving glare burning a hole in his left cheek.
The booze isn't the only thing that's free
, he could hear him think.

“Not today,” Van In roared. “We're here on business.”

Mario grimaced. “Nothing serious, eh?”

Van In showed Mario the photos. “Do you recognize him?”

He stared the bartender in the eye when he asked the question. Even seasoned liars can sometimes give themselves away with an evasive glance or an overly glib answer.

“Wait a minute,” Mario shouted. “Can't be…. Surely…. Isn't that … nah. Sorry, Commissioner. A stranger to me. Gimme a sec. I'll ask Jacques.”

Mario disappeared without troubling himself with the half-wit dandy who had been trying to order a fresh margarita for the last two and a half minutes.

“Bingo,” Leo roared when the bartender vanished behind the back of the bar. “Our friend's heading in the wrong direction. That's Jacques over there.” He pointed to a table near the dance floor. Van In barely reacted. The whiskey was struggling with the Duvels. He felt nauseous.

“It never fails to amaze me,” Leo raved, “that the last address is always the right address. If you're looking for a report, it's guaranteed to be at the bottom of the pile.”

Van In nodded. All the shouting made his ears ring, and he was doing his best to fight the fuzziness filling his head.

“I should call it Vanmaele's law,” Leo roared.

Van In nodded once again. But he wasn't quite sure what connected Leo's last two statements.

After five minutes or so, Mario reappeared with Patrick, alias the Gigolo. Patrick was forty, slim, tanned. He had been running the Villa for the best part of six years and he knew the tricks of the trade. In principle, the world of after-hours bars and private clubs tended to be frequented by two types of cop: the ones who did their job, and the ones you could sweeten up. Van In was the proverbial exception to the rule. The commissioner didn't like to be pigeonholed. The Gigolo was on his guard.

“Bonsoir, Pieter.”

He extended a cheerful hand. A fortune in gold chains dangled from his wrist.

Van In tapped his ear. The Gigolo understood immediately.

“Let's go to my office. There's less noise.” Leo saw the Gigolo beckon with his head. He hadn't heard what the man had said. The words had wriggled through the elated jumble of groggy dancers grinding to the perverse beat.

Van In knew the way. He had been there more than once.

The padded door absorbed ninety of the decibels. The Gigolo's office was furnished like a Greek temple, complete with Corinthian columns and salacious chaises longues. The white marble fluoresced blue in the indirect UV light. A fountain splashed in the corner. The tasteless thing, three shell-shaped basins piled on top of one another, was crowned with a plaster replica of the
Venus de Milo
.